by Elie Wiesel
“Not directly.”
“What does that mean, not directly? Is that yes or no? If yes, in what way?” Lowering his eyes, Pinhas acknowledged his membership in the Jewish Communist Party, emphasizing the word “Jewish.” Father reflected at length before giving his opinion: “Then you’re in danger. Go quickly to your cousin’s house.”
At dawn the next morning the police came to our house intending to take Pinhas into custody. They combed the house from top to bottom looking for arms, explosives or subversive propaganda, but they found nothing. Questioned separately, each of us gave the same answer: Pinhas often visited friends in Debrecen, Hungary, for a few days’ rest.
Years later, Pinhas told me how tormented he had been: What if the police had taken one of us hostage? What would he have done?
Zelig, who was also safely hidden away, contacted Pinhas through a reliable go-between and told him that he had received the consent of the party’s secret service to leave for the Soviet Union: Being too well known in Davarowsk, Zelig was putting all the cells in danger. Zelig asked the proper authorities if he could bring his companion Pavel, whose party loyalty he could vouch for. Twenty-four hours later, the party responded affirmatively.
Zelig organized a last family reunion in a safe hideaway at the edge of the forest. Dressed like a peasant, Pinhas seemed both anguished and excited. He promised my father that when he got to Russia he would arrange to have us all join him. We would live without fear over there. Father listened to him, distraught, and said, “I don’t know when we’ll be seeing each other again, son. But take your tefillin. They’ll protect you. And …”
“Yes, Father?
“Never forget that you’re Jewish.”
“I won’t forget, Father.”
Pinhas kissed his hand, and I thought I saw tears in his eyes.
Suddenly, my father pulled himself together and said, “I almost forgot—since you’re going to Russia, you should know that we have family in Moscow.”
Pinhas was surprised.
“Make sure you remember his name. He’s a Communist too. His name is Leon Meirovitch. He’s a close collaborator of Lazar Kaganovich.
“I’ll remember,” Pinhas said.
In the course of their trip, Pinhas mentioned the name of his relative to Zelig. The latter gave a start, as if he’d been stung by a bee.
“What? What did you just say? You have a relative who is a close collaborator of Kaganovich, Lazar Kaganovich? Are you sure?”
“Yes. That’s what my father told me.”
Zelig was convinced that Pavel and his father were mistaken; they couldn’t possibly have a relative who really worked with Kaganovich, one of Stalin’s closest collaborators. And yet they did.
Press excerpts: October 27, 1975
The Washington Post, Washington, D.C.
Shaltiel Feigenberg, who was recently taken hostage in New York, is from an Orthodox Jewish family. He has no children. It is still unclear why he has been taken hostage.
Al-Ahram, Cairo
The Jew Shaltiel Feigenberg, who was abducted by a nationalist Palestinian group in New York, is a young Zionist, known for his activities in support of the Jewish state. Many Muslims in the Arab world applaud the abduction as an act of protest against the Jewish occupation of Palestine.
Le Figaro, Paris
We have learned that the Jewish-American Shaltiel Feigenberg, who was abducted in New York, lived in France in the 1960s and completed a thesis on mysticism at the Sorbonne. Investigators believe the abductors, Palestinian extremists, may demand a ransom.
The Jerusalem Post, Jerusalem
The Israeli government is alarmed by the disappearance of Shaltiel Feigenberg in the United States, given the involvement of an underground Palestinian organization. It is very likely they will demand a ransom. Developments are being closely followed by the Mossad and the Ministry of Foreign Affairs. According to one high-ranking government official, the prime minister believes that Israel is worried that similar incidents may take place throughout the Jewish Diaspora.
Yedioth Ahronoth, Tel Aviv
Shaltiel Feigenberg is a young Jewish writer who has published political-literary articles, some of which have appeared in our columns. He has been missing from his home in Brooklyn since yesterday. The police are collaborating with intelligence services both here and in the United States.
The New York Times, New York
Shaltiel Feigenberg, born in Transylvania in 1935, lives in Brooklyn with his wife, Blanca. They have no children. The couple met at New York University.
Is it his second or third day of captivity? Endless hours of thirst, hunger, tension, pain. Unable to see or to move. His thoughts wander as he seeks something to latch on to, something to help him avoid falling into the abyss.
One-Eyed Paritus materializes from the recesses of his mind. He could see farther than anyone. Where are you, my old friend and guide? Did you ever experience prison? Were you ever subjected to torture? Did you ever feel tempted by death?
The air is stifling. He wants to cry out, weep, vomit. It reminds him of his first sea journey, to the Far East. He was young and irresponsible, and felt the need to free himself from his habits and duties, from the anxieties of his kind father and the mysticism of his cousin Arele. He longed, in short, for a change in his everyday life. He wanted to look deeply into himself before surrendering to Blanca, to the sway of her love and passion, before handing her his freedom. Just then, to be without ties—that was what he wanted. Blanca had been understanding and shown no resentment. “Good idea,” she said. “Distance will help you straighten out your thinking.” In fact, on the ship, while feeling so ill, it was he who resented her. Why had she not shed a few tears, begged him to stay, kissed him? Why did she not protest, saying the decision was proof of his egoism, that he thought more about himself than about her? Like Job, he now felt lonelier than ever. And yet, just like Job, who had three friends keeping him company, at sea, Shaltiel always had someone by his side.
How could this “someone” be defined? Paritus is an ageless man. When he listens, he looks old, moderate and wise. When he speaks, he blazes with the intensity of youth. Where does his knowledge in so many areas come from? He must have had a full and turbulent life. Is he single? Is he married? Did he have the time or desire to start a family? Never surprised, he himself is surprising for his vast knowledge and experience. When he explains a passage from an ancient text, whether Jewish, Christian, Buddhist or secular, it’s as though he had kept company with the author. To follow him, Shaltiel has to focus his attention.
I met him as I was on my way to the Far East. I had found a journalistic pretext. A Yiddish daily in New York suggested I try to find the traces of a Jewish kingdom in India, founded twelve centuries ago by the ten tribes exiled from Jerusalem by Sanheriv, the king of the Assyrians. I was twenty-four years old. I was no longer happy with my life. I had to find my bearings again, to renew myself. It was through Paritus and his book on personal and collective crises that I came to understand this.
The young noblemen in Persepolis had to learn to ride a horse, shoot an arrow and tell the truth. If you don’t know what to do with your life and don’t know how to ride or shoot an arrow, become a storyteller. You want to become a storyteller? It’s more than a profession, more than a vocation; it’s a mission and a revelation. To take it on, you must be capable of breaking all ties, of accepting a change of scene and going far away, as far away as possible, without necessarily moving from where you are. But that you’ll discover later, only after having crossed the mountains and the oceans. Don’t forget what you read: God created man and gave the storytellers the task of saying why.
On a completely different level, having always been attracted by the esoteric sciences and their mystery of mysteries, I was looking for an unfamiliar country or landscape where I could study mysticism.
I embarked on a ship in London, where I had gone to visit a distant cousin, and he, Paritus, embarked in Por
t Said, Egypt. When he walked into the small, somewhat dismal and dark third-class cabin, I was resentful: Even alone, I had felt cramped. And I was fond of my solitude.
Tall, untidy, bearded, a tanned face covered with wrinkles, he didn’t even greet me with a nod; he set his worn and battered suitcase down on a chair and started to unpack—underwear, clothes, and especially books, which he threw in a jumble on the bed. I glanced indiscreetly at the pile: English, French, German, Yiddish, Hebrew and countless other languages. He’s a Jewish intellectual, I thought to myself. Should I talk to him? I decided to wait. Would he introduce himself? Where does he come from? Where is he going? Why is he going to the Far East? Is he running away like me? Is he trying to write like me? Will he disembark in Aden like Paul Nizan? Perhaps his behavior is meant to convey that he would rather keep his distance from inquisitive people. Bah, all for the better. Conversing with strangers was not my purpose when I decided to set out on this pilgrimage in search of a Jewish legend whose origins were obscure. So I affected to be reading a specialized journal. He walked out without saying a word.
I followed him up on deck, but not right away. Many people wanted to watch our departure. Under an unblemished blue spring sky, the cumbersome ship moved away from the land with a calculated, graceless, indifferent slowness. Whistles went off and people shouted. There was the usual hubbub on the dock. A mix of vendors, guides and beggars were hoping for profits and alms. Friends and families stood by as destinies separated. A mother was crying and waving her handkerchief. A man wearing sunglasses—her husband?—caressed her hair.
Of course, no one had come to bid me farewell. My true love, Blanca, was far away, in the New World. Was she thinking of me? Did she resent me for having abandoned her? Actually, why had I left her? Did I want to find out if she could be convinced, with time, to belong to another? Did I see myself as a thief of her soul? Had I left so I could delve into these questions? My morose, bizarre roommate had vanished into the crowd. Later, I found him back in the cabin. He had a book on his knees and was staring into space. I did not disturb him.
In the evening, he didn’t come to dinner. Perhaps he was unwell with a migraine or an upset stomach. But why didn’t he speak? I concluded he simply did not want to exchange meaningless words with a stranger. That was his privilege.
That night I slept badly. I was dreadfully seasick. My roommate saw me running to the sink, yet he never asked me if he could do anything for me. In fact, he never said a word. He spent the night sitting bolt upright in his chair, his head buried in his book, his mind far away, living in his own world. Would he remain seated, unapproachable, impassive, until our arrival? Could he be a deaf-mute? From time to time, he expressed himself with nods and glances. I would have asked to change cabins, but they were all occupied.
Two days and two nights went by. I could not keep food down and suffered from a violent headache. Fortunately, my roommate wound up taking care of me. He brought me warm tea for my stomach and cold water for my burning forehead. Then, one morning, I woke up soothed; the sea had become calm. Soon, the ship put in at Aden. I went up on deck. Some passengers were returning home, and others, in transit, were setting off to discover the picturesque parts of the city. Young local boys, stripped to the waist, were showing all sorts of colorful objects to amused potential customers.
In my cabin, my roommate said in a barely audible, low-pitched voice, “Rest. You’re better, but you’ve been weakened by what you’ve been through.”
I thanked him for looking after me. He nodded. “By the way,” he said, “I speak with difficulty. Don’t take it personally.”
He is sick, I said to myself. You could see it in his face. “Tell me about yourself,” he said.
I wondered if I should tell him about Blanca, about our love, so happy and yet so foolishly complex. Instead, I said something else. “I’m a student. I’m going to the Far East because I’m preparing a doctoral dissertation on heresy in mysticism.”
I also told him about the legend of the lost Jewish kingdom. It aroused his interest.
“What I’m intrigued by,” he said, “is the oblivion. No one remembers this story.”
“Well, we share an interest in the quest for hidden things,” I said. “You might well ask: In order to probe his own abyss, does man have to detach himself from it? I would answer that sometimes we want to break the mirror by pushing back the horizons it contains.”
He interrupted me. “And what if the mirror reflected the truth of the other within yourself? Wouldn’t that be dangerous?”
I answered, “It would be a defeat. And I seek in mysticism a way to avoid it by plunging right in with eyes wide open.”
Our conversation continued on various subjects: literature and its challenges, the reasoning of philosophers, the traps of youth and the despairing wisdom of old age. He spoke about everything except his life. Why? I dared to ask him the question. He answered after a long silence.
“One day in my peregrinations, I met an old man who claimed to return from faraway times. Wasted, with a fiery gaze and a head held high, he told me atrocious stories, sometimes very old and obscure, as if he had been implicated in them. Like this meeting, for instance: ‘His name is Isaac, son of Abraham. As in the Bible. Both came close to the altar. But in his story, it was Isaac, the son, who came back alone. It was he who had the leading part. He said he was ready to reveal the truth known only to the Creator. But he warned me: Whoever would listen to his words would be condemned to go around with an inexpressible inner sadness that would never leave him, not even after his death.’ ”
I felt a chill.
A few days later, before arriving in Bombay, he said to me, “This is where I leave you. Perhaps someday we’ll meet again. On the road, in an ashram or sanctuary. Don’t be angry if I say nothing more. I don’t have the right to. In one year and a day I’m going to take a vow of silence. Somewhere I hope to meet the man who knows the Messiah’s name and identity as well as the date of his advent. When that happens, the whole world will know it, including you. On that day, man will understand that, faced with his destiny, which is his truth, questions and answers will have become one.”
He handed me a thick envelope with a message written on it: “To be opened only in a year, three months and three nights.” He asked me to give him my word. I did.
He had more than one name, but the ones he gave me were G’dalya and Paritus ben Pinhas ha-Cohen.
I never saw him again.
I often think back on our meeting and our conversations. But I never heard G’dalya mentioned again until I had returned to Europe with Blanca and several friends for a “pilgrimage to the roots,” a popular trend at the time, especially among young Jews and Christians who had discovered the horrors of contemporary history. We were in Kraków—in other words, not far from the cursed place called “the black hole of History,” where my father and Arele had been subjected to absolute evil. Young musicians entertained tourists in public places and on café terraces by singing and playing popular Jewish tunes from before the Upheaval. Blanca and our friends, worn out from the trip, had gone back to the hotel. I felt the need to take a walk in the evening air.
My gaze was attracted by a group of musicians who were forming a circle around a young and skinny bearded violinist who, with a look of concentration, was feigning to be playing: He was bowing vigorously and rhythmically, but his instrument had no strings.
During a pause I went up to him and offered him a drink. I spoke French, then English. He looked at me without understanding. “I don’t speak Polish.” When I tried Yiddish, we could converse. He wanted a glass of water. He said he was from “not very far away.” He wanted me to call him simply “the musician.” He was the only Jew in his group. I asked what he did when he wasn’t playing. All sorts of things, he said. He listened to the rustling of trees in the wind and, around here, to the song of the dead buried beneath mountains of ash. He had been in Kraków only since the previous day, yet forever: Time was
important to him only as the rhythm of a musical melody. I told him that I had played the violin as an adolescent, that I loved popular Hasidic tunes, which induced tears, smiles and fervor, and a joy arousing ecstasy. I asked about his way of “playing.” “It’s the violin,” he replied. “I belong to it, whereas the other violins belong to the musicians.” He had found his violin in a gutted Jewish house in the Carpathian Mountains. “When I bent over to dust it,” the musician said, “it started to talk to me with a human voice, without trickery or stratagems. It begged to be taken away, to be cared for and loved by me; it couldn’t bear living alone anymore, rejected by all. It was at the end of its tether, suffering too greatly. And when I hesitated, it promised to sing for me as no other instrument had ever sung. It would confide secrets to me that no other ears had ever heard. Its songs would give my happiness an age-old dimension; when I was sad, it would change my sadness into a melody of such beauty and moving sonority that even the angels in heaven had never known anything like it. In short, it would become my faithful companion in both joy and anguish.”
The musician of silence expressed himself with great seriousness—I would even say solemnity. I repressed my desire to smile. He had more to say, but he had to return to his group. The orchestra played until midnight. Though I was exhausted, I waited for the his return. Seeing how tired I was, he suggested meeting the following night.
The man fascinated me. I wanted to know who he really was. Whom had he learned such things from? Where did he live? I spent a sleepless night next to Blanca, wondering.